Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Bradley swatted the power button. “Psyops bullshit.”

  Gramps rubbed his hands over his face, dragging his skin forward then backward. “Well, there’s no way our government would put that news out—even if it were true.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” Bradley said. “But sleeper cells would explain the front-lawn executions and the playground rape. They wanted people to see it—to incite panic. It also would explain why they ran away from anybody who shot back.”

  “What they lack in discipline, they make up for with numbers,” Gramps said. “And if gangs could infiltrate the Armed Forces, why not homegrown terrorists?”

  “Are you saying you believe all that?”

  “How can you rule it out?” Gramps asked, palms up, elbows bent. “I mean, what would it take? A few dozen terrorists slipping into our military?”

  The question clawed at Bradley’s stomach. A traitor would have access to security protocols, classified information, and equipment. He would know the most efficient and devastating manner of sabotage; and he could remain virtually invisible with no telltale purchases. The U.S. military would supply all the weapons needed.

  Bradley thought about the Marine Corps motto, Semper Fidelis—always faithful, always loyal. Trust was vital to military success. Your life was in the hands of the men beside you and countless unknown Soldiers, Sailors, and Airmen. You relied on them to do their jobs. Destruction of that trust could surely dwarf any physical losses the enemy could inflict.

  Thoughts of the Marine Corps sent conflicting obligations surging to the forefront of Bradley’s mind; they wrestled for dominance while guilt refereed. Tomorrow, the family-versus-country dilemma would demand a resolution. There could be no compromise. Leave or stay? And by day’s end, Bradley would betray someone. His country? Or his grandfather who had raised him?

  66B

  A GRINDING CRUNCH punctuated Heather’s shrieks, underscored by the percussion of buckshot tunneling through the truck bed. Will jerked the steering wheel, and the pickup fishtailed over the median, kicking up a spray of grass and sand. Panic whooshing in his ears, he struggled for control, righted his course, then wedged the accelerator pedal to the floor.

  The truck careened and bucked and shuddered for over a mile before Will slowed down enough to return to the roadway. Even at five miles per hour the vehicle still shimmied.

  Peering through the serrated remains of his driver’s window, he swore under his breath.

  The fender had bent, causing it to scrape against his left front tire. He braked to a stop.

  Above Heather’s hysterical rant, Will checked on both kids. Miraculously, neither had been injured by buckshot or flying glass. Billy hadn’t stirred throughout the ordeal, and Will pressed his lips against the toddler’s forehead.

  At least 103, he thought, dousing Billy’s hair and clothes with water. “Hang in there, Buddy.”

  He leaned over to kiss his crying infant daughter. “Sorry, Susie-Q. Daddy has to keep moving.”

  Will exited the truck, shaking tempered glass crumbs from his jeans. Tiny bleeding cuts flecked his chest and left arm, and he plucked two glass fragments from his skin.

  Retrieving his hammer, Will sighed. Lead pellets had perforated the boxes in the truck bed, and two water containers were leaking.

  Heather trailed after him mumbling, “My Billy’s dying.”

  Will eyed her, wishing he had the gumption to knock her out. Instead, he pounded the metal fender until the noise drowned out her voice. His hand slipped. The crimped metal gouged his knuckle, slashing open the same spot he had cut last month at work.

  A celebratory whoop chimed through him. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?

  With renewed energy, he pummeled the fender; then sucking on his bleeding knuckle, he shooed Heather back into the truck and headed east toward Jacksonville, Florida.

  Spotting a Ford dealership, he forged his own off-ramp across the grass and drove around to the service department. Will smashed a window to gain access to the building, opened a service bay door, and pulled his truck inside.

  Rooting through cabinets, he found a first aid kit and whispered, “Thank God.”

  While Heather ranted, Will cleansed Billy’s wound and squirted antibiotic cream deep into the puncture. After applying a fresh bandage, he stowed the first aid kit on the floor beneath the car seat. Thankfully, the baby had cried herself to sleep.

  His attention turned to fuel. Since the pink gasoline bucket had been riddled with buckshot, Will scrounged a few oil drip pans from the garage and, courtesy of the showroom vehicles, collected a few gallons of gas.

  In the customer waiting area, he found complimentary snacks arranged on a credenza. Will tapped a petrified jelly doughnut against the table then gathered up individually wrapped chocolate chip cookies.

  They may not be nutritious, he thought, dumping them into a white plastic bag imprinted with the Ford logo. But at least my family will have something to eat.

  Will headed outside, debating whether to rest here for the night or keep moving. Weary, he slumped back against the building and bit into a cookie; then hearing an airplane, he scanned the horizon. An aircraft was heading east toward the city. Plump and gray, it was a military cargo plane flying at low altitude, and packages were falling like raindrops.

  The military was air-dropping food.

  The plane was a beautiful sight, a sixty-ton winged angel glistening in the sunlight—salvation.

  Is there a base nearby? With medical personnel? Antibiotics for Billy?

  As it passed to Will’s left, smoke trails snaked up from the ground like two ghoulish fingers reaching toward the aircraft.

  What the hell?

  A cruel, hope-consuming fireball rose toward the heavens.

  Burning wreckage tumbled to the ground, bleeding dismal black smoke.

  Why the hell would somebody shoot down an American plane dropping relief supplies over Jacksonville, Florida?

  ( ( ( 37% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 10B ) ) )

  Sunday, February 23rd

  67B

  TO DISTRACT HERSELF from the unrelenting grief, Abby donned her ghillie suit and embarked on a mission: to ascend the northern ridge unnoticed by her father, who had hardened into a human headstone marking her mother’s grave.

  She skulked from the screened room, stooping behind hibiscus bushes and palms; then Abby skull dragged fifty yards to a four-foot-high berm, an unnatural protrusion from the hillside constructed by landscapers to conceal unsightly utility boxes. From there, she crept up a forty-degree incline, enthusiasm waning.

  I could’ve somersaulted up the hill, and my dad wouldn’t have noticed ... He’s not the same since Mom died ... Then again, neither am I.

  It was as if an emotional fault line had ruptured within Abby, an indefinable emptiness that defied words. Would time heal the extraordinary void? Or would the death of her mother grow into a chasm and devour her, like her father?

  Ensconced behind a bushy weed just below the hill’s crest, Abby eavesdropped on birdsong, surveilled the squirrels, and monitored the flutter of leaves, but her unruly mind volleyed between the loss of her mother and Bradley’s impending departure.

  His ten-day leave expires today, she thought. Is he going to abandon us?

  A two-stage needle of dread skewered her, loneliness followed by the profound fear of assuming defensive responsibilities beyond her capability. Addicts, burglars, gangs, the girl at the swing set—horrible thoughts assailed her until Bradley entered the yard.

  Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, rifle dangling against his back, he began transporting lake water to the garden.

  He’s not leaving this morning, Abby thought, and a selfish strain of relief succumbed to empathy. It must suck for him, being forced to choose between protecting Gramps and reporting for duty.

  Initially, she had been attracted to Bradley’s handsome face, impressed by his Sniper credentials. Now, she felt drawn to the man beneath it
all. More concerned about his grandfather than himself, protecting Abby from everything from alligators to savages, he was selfless and heroic; and he made her feel safe in a dangerous world.

  Her thoughts meandered. What would it be like to kiss him? When would he finally quit fighting it? Bradley felt the attraction; Abby could see it in his eyes.

  It’s just a matter of time, she told herself.

  On a lark, she decided to stalk him. How close could she get undetected? She inched ahead, attention fused to him, breathless and motionless whenever his eyes swept the hillside. Bradley was dutifully observant, unlike her father, but the chore of watering the garden was a distraction Abby could manipulate.

  When I get close enough, I’ll nail him with an acorn, she thought.

  Minutes ticked by; he dumped bucket after bucket, scanning more frequently as though he could sense her watching. Abby advanced to the edge of the tree line, five yards from her father, barely twenty yards from Bradley.

  She was about to pelt him with an acorn when Gramps emerged from the screened room, a sense of purpose in his shuffling gait.

  “Hey, Kyle? You got a minute?”

  Her father offered a machinelike nod.

  “Listen, it’s a horrible thing, losing Jessie. But you can’t stop living.”

  “Maybe I don’t feel like living—”

  “Son, I don’t give a damn what you feel like. You have a responsibility to provide food, water, and security for your daughter. Bad enough she lost her mother. She shouldn’t have to lose her father too.” Derision and sympathy were mingling in Gramps’ icy stare.

  “I know. It’s just ...” Her father’s voice broke. “She looks so much like Jessie. It’s hard for me to look at her.”

  The words vibrated through every vertebra in Abby’s spine. Her eyes welled, then the chasm inside her fractured and reconstituted into anger.

  “What would Jessie think about you sitting here by this grave? Neglecting your daughter?” Gramps demanded. “Listen, Kyle, I get it. I lost the love of my life after forty-seven years of marriage. And I was convinced that was the worst thing that could ever happen ... Until I had to bury my daughter.”

  The two men locked eyes, and for a moment, Abby wasn’t sure if her father was going to slug Gramps or hug him.

  “You’re right, George.” His stunned expression gave way to shame, and he rose to his feet. “Jessie would be furious with me.”

  Abby’s gaze jerked toward the street.

  What was that low rumbling noise?

  Chambering a round, she watched a battered pickup truck glide past the berm, its rear fender a hunk of metallic Swiss cheese. Her newly zeroed sights were on the driver; her finger, on the trigger.

  68B

  SARAH KHALID AL-DOSSARI fidgeted with her watch. Time was running out. Uptight and jittery, she glanced at an F-22 Raptor sitting idle atop the flight deck of the U.S.S. Stellate aircraft carrier.

  After she had refueled the jet with her unique feminine touch, it had failed preflight inspection and been re-spotted amongst five other jets, three F-18 Super Hornets and two F-22 Raptors, all awaiting an elevator ride to the maintenance hangar.

  Following the first wave of missing fighter jets, the Navy concluded fuel tanks had been sabotaged. All fuel handlers had been questioned, their possessions searched, but Sarah’s tampons had bamboozled the well-trained eyes of investigators. The forgery of commercial packaging included cardboard cylinders indistinguishable even by touch and the airtight plastic sleeve had defeated the ship’s electronic gadgets. Officers would have had to open the tampon or X-ray it to detect the threat—at the risk of offending a Muslim woman.

  Sarah checked the time again, less than three minutes.

  She staggered toward the doomed F-22 Raptor, and voices shouted as she violated a dozen safety protocols. Flight deck operations halted.

  Within ten feet of the Raptor, Sarah let her body go limp and sunk onto the deck. Emergency calls went out. A medical team stormed toward her.

  Two minutes.

  Six faces loomed over her. Hands attempted to whisk her onto a stretcher. Sarah rolled and writhed, kicking and punching. A call went out for Military Police.

  At ten seconds, nearly a dozen Sailors surrounded her, foreheads puckered, heads shaking. Two men grasped her wrists, stretching her arms skyward, and an MP bound her hands with flex-cuffs. Sarah glanced at her watch.

  Fanning the fingers on her right hand, she shouted, “Five.”

  Baffled looks skittered amongst the medical team.

  Thumb retracted, she said, “Four.”

  MPs were kneeling atop her flailing legs, attempting to restrain her feet.

  “Three,” she shouted, pinky tucked against her palm.

  Restraints tightened around her ankles.

  “Two.” She illustrated, projecting a pair of middle fingers.

  A few Sailors backpedaled, leery of her countdown; most stood entranced by the freakish scene.

  “One.” A single middle finger, then a thunderous roar vibrated the flight deck. A fountain of jagged metal and burning jet fuel erupted.

  Surrounded by Corpsmen and MPs, a foxhole of human flesh, Sarah heard shrapnel piercing bodies with a sloshing whump. Flames were ravaging the Raptor. A specter of roiling black smoke swamped the flight deck.

  Sirens blared. Fire crews scrambled.

  Through fluctuating patches of smoke, Sarah made eye contact with the Corpsman beside her. Face bloodied, twisted metal ribbons jutting from his chest and face, he was a dying man, and she cackled with joy. The Raptor had been destroyed, surrounding planes damaged, Sailors maimed—and Sarah would walk away without a scratch.

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  Shock registered on the Corpsman’s face; then grimacing with pain, he wrenched the daggerlike metal from his chest and drove it deep into Sarah’s neck.

  The last sound she heard was his laughter.

  69B

  “BRADLEY, DON’T SHOOT! It’s me, Will!”

  Exhaling, Bradley let his rifle sink to ready position, glanced over his shoulder, and shouted an all clear. Mr. Murphy and Gramps were hustling toward the truck, and as Bradley turned back toward Will, he detected movement in the trees. Instinctively, his rifle swung upward. Another dose of adrenaline injected into his system, then his stomach capsized, realizing his rifle sights were on Abby.

  Damn it! In the span of a minute, I could’ve accidentally shot my best friend and Abby.

  Will was racing toward him, ashen-faced, holding Billy with one arm, an infant carrier with the other. “Billy’s running a high fever,” he said, desperation resounding in his voice.

  “We need to cool him down,” Gramps said.

  “Pool water,” Mr. Murphy added. “We can use the tub in the guest bathroom.” He shouted for Abby to get the chemical ice pack from the master bathroom, then he started toward the house.

  Will handed off the infant carrier and dashed after him, leaving Bradley staring down at a tiny, beet-red, screaming face.

  What am I supposed to do with you?

  He walked toward the truck to transfer custody of the wailing bundle of joy to Heather. She was deliriously murmuring, “Billy’s dying.”

  “All right, enough of that,” Gramps shouted, approaching the vehicle. “Heather, you need to pull yourself together.”

  Bradley attempted to pawn off the infant on Gramps, but he said, “Sorry, Son. I’ve got my hands full with Mom.”

  Bradley traipsed toward the screened room, serenading the baby with the Marine Corps Hymn. She remained unmoved.

  Flustered, he yanked open the door, then seeing Abby, he grinned. “Tag, you’re it,” he said, placing the shrieking infant in front of her.

  “Hello, there,” Abby said, her tone dripping with baby talk. “The badass Marine is scared of you. Yes, he is.”

  Smirking, Bradley watched her unbuckle the restraints and lift the infant from the carrier. She cradled the baby, rocking and bouncing until the cry
ing subsided, then he headed inside to check on Will.

  In the Murphys’ bathroom, Billy was unconscious, lying in a few inches of water.

  “... I am so sorry for your loss,” Will was saying as he leaned over the tub, holding a thermometer beneath the toddler’s tongue.

  Mr. Murphy muttered his thanks and dabbed an ice pack against Billy’s feverish forehead.

  Catching a glimpse of Bradley in the mirror, Will said, “Where’s the baby?”

  “Abby ... And Gramps is with Heather.”

  Nodding, Will removed the thermometer and rolled it between his fingers. “It’s down to one-oh-one.”

  “He’ll be fine.” Bradley rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “The kid’s not a wuss like his daddy.”

  Will feigned a smile, and Bradley’s mind flashed back. His rifle sights on his best friend’s head. His finger on the trigger.

  It was unavoidable, he decided. Not the case with Abby.

  Sighing, Bradley returned to the lanai and sank down into a chair. “That stunt you pulled was reckless, Squirt,” he said, irritation simmering in his tone.

  “I was just messing around, seeing how close I could get before you noticed.”

  “Do you realize I could’ve accidentally shot you?” Bradley gripped his forehead; the thought made him ache.

  “Sorry. I never expected a vehicle to come rolling down the street.” Abby’s gaze dropped to the sleepy infant. “But we’re lucky. We found out the easy way.”

  Confused, he leaned forward, propping forearms against his knees. “What are you talking about?”

  Head rising, alarm enveloped Abby’s beautiful face. “Oh my God, you don’t see it ... You didn’t know I was there. If I’d been an intruder, you’d be dead. All of you would be dead.”

  70B

  KYLE SCOOPED THE LAST forkful of tilapia into his mouth, trying to convince himself it was filet mignon. George had plucked the fish from his pond before heading to overwatch, and even the damned mustard couldn’t mask the taste.

  He didn’t feel like eating, or socializing for that matter, but life was no longer about his feelings. It was about his daughter’s well-being, and he needed to be more proactive.